Borut Kozelj, the hyperactive Slovenian butcher, raises a pair of sausages in the air. “Guys, which one is healthier?” he challenges. We fellow novice sausage-makers take a close look.

The first is dappled with white chunks under the skin; the second is a consistent colour, and of a creamier texture. We decide that the dappled one is more fatty, on account of the visible white bits.

“That is wrong, guys,” says Borut. “Guys, the lumpy or pasty texture comes from how finely it is minced. Nothing to do with fat content. If it is nice and chunky, it will be good quality meat, you can’t hide nothing, guys. But the pasty one is minced very finely, so you don’t know what is in there…”

We all turn a little green and swear never to buy cheap, finely minced sausage again.

Welcome to the one-evening sausage making course at the Ginger Pig butcher’s shop in Marylebone. It takes place every month, and is invariably sold out: bookings must be made at least four weeks in advance. Sausage-making, it seems, is back in fashion.

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Waitrose’s sausage buyer, Jamie Matthew, says that anecdotal evidence confirms this. “We constantly get enquiries for sausage skins, even though we don’t sell them,” he says. “Unless everyone is doing something else with pig intestines, people are making sausages.”

The chopping starts. I am taken aback by the nipples on the piece of pork I am given, but I am attempting to be a man of the earth: I whip them off with a knife and get to work.

Before long, following Borut’s energetic instructions, we have a pile of good meat on one side, and “bad stuff” on the other. In addition to nipples, the bad stuff includes gristle, glands, and the soft or “flair” fat, a dimpled, wobbly layer that surrounds the animal’s organs. This is best avoided as it liquidises when cooked and drains off, leaving the sausage dry. By contrast, the harder, subcutaneous fat adds flavour and glues the meat together, preventing it from crumbling.

A good sausage should be 25-30 per cent fat; for this reason, the expensive, lean cuts such as the tenderloin are not as good as cuts from the shoulder or belly.

Once the meat is diced, it is time to add the extras. Borut suggests that for the sake of simplicity we limit ourselves to garlic, sea salt and black pepper. But, he says, it is possible to experiment with a wide variety of spices.

According to Nichola Fletcher, author of the appositely named book Sausage, this is where the fun begins. “The whole joy is to surprise yourself with spice mixes,” she says. “Historically, whenever there was an abundance of something, they put it in a sausage and chose other flavours to go with it.” Some of her favourites include Swiss chard, sweet potato leaves and marjoram.

Nichola has been making venison sausages for 40 years, and selling them under the brand Seriously Good Venison. “Making sausages is immensely satisfying,” she says, “particularly when you blend traditional recipes with your own innovations.”

British sausages are distinctive in two ways. Firstly, we have no tradition of making dried, or cured sausages, as is common on the Continent; ours are always fresh or cooked. Secondly, we add cereal — breadcrumbs, oatmeal or rusk — to the sausage mix, making it softer and less rich.

“The cereal is particularly good to experiment with,” says Nichola. “It needs to be soaked, but not necessarily in water. You can use diluted vinegar, wine, or even fruit juice.”

The quality of the cereal is key. “Most sausage producers use rusk, as it is long-lasting,” she explains. “But that’s an abomination. I recommend traditional ingredients such as breadcrumbs.” In her venison sausages she uses oatmeal for a “lovely, nutty flavour”. If the quality of the meat is good, one part cereal to four parts meat is usually about right.

Whatever you decide to use, Nichola offers some invaluable advice: season a fistful of meat first, then fry it up and taste it before seasoning the whole batch. This, she says, has averted many a disaster.

Back at the Ginger Pig, we pour the meat through a squelching industrial mincer then, using a mechanical piping machine, fill the skins. At home, however, the meat can be minced using a food processor set to “pulse”, with plastic blades (gentle treatment prevents the texture from becoming too pasty). Then twist them into luscious, slippery sausages. Job done.

The skins – real intestines are available at weschenfelder.co.uk – can be filled without powerful equipment, too. Small machines can be purchased online, but according to Nichola, a big funnel can do just as well. Simply put a skin on the end, fill the funnel with meat and push it down with a wooden spoon.

The main danger here is overfilling. When the full skin is twisted into individual sausages it will “plump up”, so it is better to slightly underfill to avoid bursting.

I leave the Ginger Pig a happy man, with a bagful of sausages and a determination to try it at home. There are countless regional recipes to choose from. According to Carlyn Paton of the artisan Scottish sausage makers We Hae Meat — who are exceeding all sales expectations at Tesco — the iconic Scottish Lorne is particularly easy to make. “It has no skin,” she says. “You press the mince into a rectangular pan and cook it. At home, you could use a baking tin. Then you eat it sliced.”

The sheer variety of British sausage recipes, together with their tolerance for adaptation, means that you can both cook traditionally and innovate at the same time. What could be more British than that?